


Cursive

by Penthesilea1623



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hawke makes learning fun, True Love, Writing practice, gratitude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 08:49:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16850938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penthesilea1623/pseuds/Penthesilea1623
Summary: After their reconciliation in Act III, Fenris is at Hawke's mansion practicing his writing and getting frustrated.Hawke suggests a new way to practice.Fenris and Marian Hawke. A stand alone one shot, unrelated to any of my other stories and cross-posted on my tumblr.





	Cursive

Fenris doesn’t move into Hawke’s mansion after their reunion, and Hawke understands that, understands how important that independence is to him, having his own space, a home that is solely his.

The time he does spend there gradually increases though: whole nights, and next days, and then several days in a row.

They take pleasure in their time together, not just sexual pleasure although that surpasses either of their hopes and expectations, but simpler pleasures, laughing over a meal, or sitting in the library late at night as Hawke deals with the never ending pile of correspondence, and Fenris practices his reading and writing.

Hawke is teaching him cursive.

It is proving more difficult than he had thought it would, stringing the letters together, getting the ink to flow evenly from the quill, pressing firmly enough that it does but not so firmly that the nib of the quill bends or even breaks. And just as he thinks that, the quill bends, and snaps and releases a blob of ink that ruins the paper.

With a sweep of his arm and a string of Tevene curses, he sends the quill and the paper flying off the desk. This is the third time it has happened.

Hawke looks up from her papers and just raises an eyebrow.

“I apologize.” Fenris mutters, feeling foolish at the outburst.

“Well, I did always wonder why they called it cursive.” At Fenris’ blank stare she rolls her eyes. “Cursive/cursing?” She explains.

Fenris just scowls and Hawke laughs.

“Oh come on, Varric would have thought that was hilarious.”

He can’t help but smile at the sound of that laugh. “The dwarf’s humor is as odd as yours.” He tells her.

Hawke stands and walks towards him, pausing to retrieve the paper and quill from the floor. She looks at the paper and smiles encouragingly. “You’re doing well.” She insists. “You’re simply pressing too hard.” She turned the paper over, and indeed there were some instances where the ink had leaked through to the other side.

“And if I don’t press too hard the letters are barely visible!” He snaps back at her. “Enough. I am done with this.” Hawke just watches him carefully with those electric blue eyes. “For now.” He amends.

She smiles again, and slipping her hand around his neck kisses him gently. “We could try something a bit different if you like.” She murmurs against his lips.

His arms slip around her waist, seemingly of their own accord, holding her close. He reaches up and brushes back that one lock of black hair that always slips down across her eyes. “And what might that be?”

She rests her hands on his chest and kisses him lightly once more. “Lock the door.” She tells him.

He gives her a suspicious look but walks to the door and locks it. He turns around to find Hawke slipping out of her tunic. As is her habit in the evenings she is wearing nothing beneath it. The soft leather boots she wears with it were kicked off some time ago. She tosses the tunic on to one of the armchairs which he notices she has moved away from the fireplace and stands there clad only in her smalls.

She smiles at him as if there is nothing unusual about it. “Bring the ink and the quill.”

He does as she asks.

Hawke is hard to resist like this.

When he returns she is lying on her stomach on the rug in front of the fireplace propped up on her elbows. He stands there, the ink in one hand and the quill in the other, uncertain what to do, but feeling foolish for needing to ask.

She smiles at him, and as always it puts him at ease. “Write on me.”

He stares at her. “I beg your pardon?” He says after a brief moment.

“Write on me.” She repeats. “On my back. Practice your cursive.” 

He frowns. “Why should I do this?” 

She reaches up, hooking a finger around his belt and pulling him down. He only just avoids spilling the ink as he drops to his knees in front of her.

“It’ll help you control the pressure of the pen.” She explains.

His frown deepens. There will be no issue if he doesn’t press hard enough, but if he presses too hard… 

He shakes his head. “No.” If he’s torn paper, he would surely scratch that perfect smooth skin of her back. “No.” He repeats. “I don’t wish to hurt you.” 

She smiles at him, the sort of smile he never thought he’d receive from anyone, let alone someone like Marian Hawke. “You would never hurt me.” She lowers her head, resting it on her folded arms, waiting. 

He kneels there, awkwardly, uncertain of how to proceed.

“Straddle me.” She tells him. When he still doesn’t move she opens one eye. “Go on. One leg on either side, just below my bum.” She closes her eyes again apparently expecting him just to obey.

He puts the ink and the quill down and straddles her. He reaches for the quill and dips it into the ink and then hesitates. “I don’t know what to write.” 

She laughs again. “Anything. Write what you want for breakfast in the morning. Write about why you hate fish. Write about why you love apples, or where you would want to go if we were to run away from Kirkwall together.”

“Together?” He asks, interrupting her.

Her eyes open again and she lifts her head trying to look over her shoulder at him. “Wouldn’t you come with me?” She asks.

“Yes.” He says with no hesitation. He still finds it hard to believe that she wants him as much as he wants her, and suddenly he knows what to write.

“Close your eyes.” He tells her, and when she has he dips the quill into the ink, and carefully, in cursive, he begins to write.

_Meeting you was the most important thing to happen to me._

The letters are a bit faint and he increases the pressure slightly.

_I owe you everything, my life, my freedom, my happiness._

_The first two I hoped I would gain and I thought that would be enough._

_I never thought I would have the last. I didn’t dare to believe it._

_I didn’t dare to even dream it._

She squirms suddenly and the quill slips, leaving a thick black line.

“Did I hurt you?” He asks in alarm.

“It tickles.” She says, laughing, and he realizes he’s already covered her back to her lower ribcage. It’s one of half a dozen sensitive spots that he’s discovered. Marian Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall is ticklish. Very ticklish, he thinks with a smile.

“Stay still.” He orders and continues.

_I lied when I told Varric that there was no sweeping._

_You swept me up from the first moment I saw you._

_You took my breath away and I have yet to catch it._

_There was no reason for me to remain in this city._

_No reason except that I couldn’t leave you._

_I remain at your side._

_I stand ready, whatever comes, wherever we go._

And he realizes two things. He has stopped thinking about how hard he is pressing with his quill, but the writing is even and neat, and that he’s run out of room. The writing stops at the edge of her smalls. He pauses just for a second and shifts lower down and unties one side pulling them down over her bottom.

“What are you doing?” She asks raising her head and trying to look back at him.

“I need more room.” He tells her curtly. “Stop moving.”

 _I am yours, always._ He writes on one buttock and she starts squirming and giggling. He’s reached another sensitive spot. He gives the other buttock a light slap. “Stay still.” He says, but he’s laughing now too.

“What you could possibly still have to say that requires this kind of torture?” She asks.

“The most important thing.” He tells her, and dips the quill in the ink one last time.

_I love you._

He tosses the quill aside. “There.” He says. “I am done.” He says, and lies down beside her so their faces are just inches apart. He reaches up a hand and strokes her cheek softly.

She smiles at him. “Do I get to hear what you wrote?” She asks.

And he smiles back. It no longer feels as strange as it once did. “Perhaps, some day.”


End file.
